


ain’t no grave can hold my body down / i’ll crawl home to her

by kattyshack



Series: snowflakes [10]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cunnilingus, Dark Jon Snow, Dirty Talk, F/M, Fingerfucking, Loss of Virginity, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Possessive Behavior, Romance, Seduction, Sexual Content, because it's kink week and i got things to do okay, but he's still a slave to sansa bc i said so, but sansa gives in p quickly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-02
Updated: 2018-02-02
Packaged: 2019-03-11 08:44:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13520694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kattyshack/pseuds/kattyshack
Summary: written for jonsa kink week on tumblr: day 1: dark jon + virginity kink:Once the resurrected Jon Snow has retaken Winterfell with his cousin Sansa Stark at his side, he’s determined that the North will keep its queen — but Jon will take the woman for himself.(title from “work song,” by hozier)





	ain’t no grave can hold my body down / i’ll crawl home to her

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: some deetz: first of all, for some reason i thought the hozier lyrics included “ain’t” but upon further inspection… they do not? idc i like the way it sounds better this way, don’t @ me. 
> 
> NOW, TO THE PLOT (or notable lack thereof): mix of book and show canon. sansa never married ramsay but jon was still murdered/resurrected, and they take back winterfell. no white walkers because idgaf. this is probably the most pwp thing i’ve ever written?? nor is it especially original, but… whatever. they’re gonna fuck and that’s what we’re all here for, anyway

“Hello, Sansa.”

She startles, a hand fluttering to the rapid pulse in her throat as she spins around.

Her chamber door creaks as it’s closed at the hand of her cousin, Jon Snow. He’s leaning against the stone wall and handling the door as though it weighs no more than parchment. His eyes are drowned in black — as his curls, as his clothes, as the deepest pits of his resurrected soul — as he regards her. A smirk twitches at one corner of his mouth when he catches the bob of her throat.

Ever the lady, though — even after all she’s suffered — Sansa does not voice her displeasure. Instead, she says simply, “I didn’t see you.”

“I gathered not.” Jon bars the door.

Sansa studies him; her scrutiny is slow, cautious, and she treads just as carefully: “It’s late.”

That smirk of his twitches again. “I gathered that as well. I don’t wish to be disturbed. You’re quite busy during the day, my lady.”

 _Avoiding me_ , he thinks, and his eyes on her smolder. He makes her nervous, he knows. Not fearful as he does so many others, but it’s plain that she does not wish to be alone with him.

And _alone_ is precisely where he wishes to be with her.

“During the day…” Sansa echoes, and wets her lips when she trails off. Jon wonders if she knows; and if she does, does she know what that innocuous little sweep of her tongue does to him? “There is much to see to, my lord.”

There is a stirring in his gut. It makes him feel alive. But still he tells her, “I am no lord, Sansa.”

“What shall I call you, then?”

_Indeed, my lord will do nicely, but only when you’re on your knees for me. Lover, when I have you in your bed. Husband, and then I shall take you in the godswood, naked in the hot springs, and I’ll chase the water down your lithe, yielding body with my tongue._

His eyes track that body now, drinking in the dips and curves that weave this Northern queen into the woman Jon craves to take. Her hands fidget restlessly in her skirts, and her shoulders are tense. Jon wonders how he might make those strained muscles melt; he’s quite good at wondering such things by now, but _wondering_ can only sustain a man so long.

“Jon, Sansa,” he says aloud, but so gruffly that it’s clear he was thinking anything but his given name. “Call me Jon.”

A smile ghosts across her pretty mouth, and Jon wants to take it with his own. Vaguely, he remembers that Sansa is his cousin — the only family they have left is in each other, as far as they know — but his clearest memory of her isn’t _familial_ at all. Since they reunited in the courtyard at Castle Black, since Jon’s first life had become nothing more than the faintest of dreams, he has felt nothing but the deep, covetous desire to keep her by his side as he stands by hers.

Truly, she has no reason to fear him as the others do. Because for Sansa’s sake, Jon would sacrifice any number of them, if he had to. Since the Red Woman had brought him back, since Sansa had arrived in her drab grey cloak in the midst of an oncoming storm, Jon has had one singular goal in mind: to protect her, to shield her, to crown her Queen in the North, and to ensure that she _stay put_ , where he can keep an eye on her so that no one else might whisk her away.

She need not fear him, but Sansa has become a shrewd sort of woman. She does not trust easily. But for the moment, her shoulders relax, and she takes a seat in front of her mirror to ready herself for bed. Jon’s eyes flick towards it — large and inviting and warm, covered in furs and shadows and the barest glitter of firelight from the other side of the room.

He had come tonight for a purpose, and Sansa’s bed is his destination.

“What did you wish to discuss then, Jon?” she asks, and begins to pull the ties from her hair.

Jon does not answer; instead, he crosses her chambers in three long strides, and stays her hand before she can loosen her braids.

“Let me,” he murmurs. His breath, cold as the winter winds that rattle the windows, collides with her pulse, and Jon can feel it quicken beneath his touch. Sansa meets his eye in the mirror and nods. Still cautious, but curious now as well, and Jon does not wish to disappoint her.

He begins to unbind her braid, his fingers cold but clever. Ribbons of auburn spring from their pins and Jon smooths the tresses with calloused palms. The newly-freed strands stick to his skin, sparking static, so Jon licks his thumb to temper them. When he licks his thumb a second time, he can taste her — a rich, cinnamon musk that he imagines must linger everywhere, and he intends to find out if it does.

In the mirror, he sees Sansa’s eyes flutter closed when he runs his fingers from her scalp to the ends of her hair. He watches the bob of her lovely throat, the blush in her cheeks, the way her lips part for her to release one soft, barely-there breath… He pauses at her temples, rubbing soothing circles to ease the headache he knows she suffers, as she does at every day’s end. Between her hairpins and lady’s duties, Jon is hard-pressed to believe that the ache ever ceases.

He combs his hands through her hair once more, ‘til he reaches its downy ends, and he begins to knead the soreness from her back. He wonders what other aches she harbours, and if he might ease those as well.

One hand moves to her left shoulder while the other sweeps her unbound hair over the right. Sansa sighs, low and content, eyes still closed as she enjoys his ministrations. Jon wonders if she means to enjoy them so much — but it’s no matter to him what she _means_ to do, so long as she does.

He leans forward, just enough to trace his nose along her hairline so he might inhale that sweet cinnamon smell. His groan is soft but sure, and he murmurs _“Beautiful”_ in a deep Northern rumble that makes Sansa shiver beneath him.

Her eyes flutter again, nearly open, then shut tight before she says, “Lord Baelish says I look just like Mother.”

A low growl breaks past Jon’s lips. It reverberates in the space between his mouth and her ear. “No —” he wraps a hand around her silken hair and tugs sharply, baring her throat and her wild, skittering pulse “— you look like Sansa.”

This time, her eyes open. That Tully blue is naught but a rim around pools of black to match his own as they meet in the looking glass again. Jon smirks as though he knows what she’s thinking, knows how her nerves had tied in knots as he’d worked the pins from her hair.

Gaze steady on hers, he bends ever-so-slightly lower to place his parted lips upon her neck.

Her pulse skips so violently that Jon thinks she might reignite his own — so slow and languid since his resurrection, and it only beats to a lively hum when Sansa is near enough to touch, but still out of his reach.

 _Not anymore_ , he vows as his lips skim upwards, to the underside of her jaw. _Not tonight._

“Did he touch you?” he breathes into the hollow behind her ear. “Lord Baelish.”

Sansa’s shoulders tense anew. Jon’s hand is steady, kneading the muscles back into submission until she admits, “He tried.”

Hot, liquid anger flares in Jon’s gut. He growls again, lips parting further so that the scrape of his teeth joins the stubble of his beard in marking her skin. “The Young Falcon, then?”

He tugs on her hair again and Sansa’s back arches. “Died before he could.”

“The singer?” Jon nips at her earlobe, then sucks it between his teeth. His free hand glides along the laces that tie the front of her dress. “Marillion.”

“He tried as well.”

“And in King’s Landing?” Jon wants to know, desperate for her continued denial even as his bloodlust intensifies; he’ll kill anyone who tried, no matter their failures. “Joffrey? Tyrion Lannister?”

“I’m a maid, Jon.” The truth leaves her in an irritable, embarrassed snap. Sansa’s trembling fingers catch his wandering ones, stilling them as they tug her laces apart. “If that’s what you wish to know. I’m still a maid.”

 _“Mmmmm.”_ Jon’s groan is deeper this time, not so much a sound as it is an echo in his chest. She is a maid, untouched, unaware of how it feels to have a man between her legs — his mouth, his hands, his cock… Jon could taste her, if he wants (and _oh_ , he does), without the lingering ghosts of any man who had been there before. He can make Sansa his, entirely, indisputably — _his_ , now until the end of their days, and no one could say she’d ever loved another but him.

He flexes his fingers until they’re free of her hold once more, free to wander the skin he exposes, little by little. “Is that why Lord Baelish asked for my consent for your hand this evening?”

“He what?” Sansa blinks at him in an aroused sort of confusion. Her pupils are blown wide, but her brow scrunches in concentration as she attempts to follow his words while her body strains for his touches. Jon will not disappoint her on either count.

He gives her laces one final pull so that her gown falls open to reveal her silk shift underneath; the material is thin enough that he can see her nipples harden at the cold rush of air, and he closes a hand over her breast, squeezing and eliciting a moan from Sansa’s pretty porcelain throat.

She does not trust easily, but she wants him, as he does her.

“It seems he thinks you a worthy prize for his efforts in returning you to Winterfell,” Jon explains, his voice rough as he palms her over her shift, as she pants against him. He winds his other arm ‘round her waist to keep her still, his chest pressed to her back as she writhes upon her little wooden stool. “But I rather think he misjudged, seeing as how he returned you to _me_ as well. I’m not ready to give you up so easily, Sansa.”

She swallows thickly, and her breath comes more harshly after. “Is that what you told him?”

“No.” Jon’s eyes lock on hers in the mirror as his hand leaves her breast and travels down, down… “I told him if he thought to take you, I’d take him apart. His hands, his tongue, his eyes, his head… I’d find great pleasure in taking Longclaw to his sorry, snivelling body.” _And then I’d find greater pleasure still when I took you afterwards._ He rubs her cunt over her loosened skirts, opens his mouth against her ear and mutters, hot and ragged, “I told your Lord Baelish that I’d rip him limb from limb, if he pursued you.”

 _“Oh —”_ Sansa’s next moan is muffled beneath the sudden press of Jon’s mouth. He holds her chin, jerking her face to the side so he can take her lips greedily, slides his tongue between them roughly, swallows her whimpers and whines.

Here, she tastes of that heady cinnamon flavour he’d smelled in her hair. Jon cups her fully over her skirts, and imagines her cunt tastes just the same; it would feel the same, too, warm and wet and open for him.

_Lover. Husband. Lady. Wife._

_Mine._

If Petyr Baelish thought to take this from him — thought to take _Sansa_ — Jon would gladly kill the man a thousand times over.

“Do you think he’d still want you —” Jon pants into her mouth “— if someone else had you first?”

He does not give her a moment to answer before he stands, lifting her with him, and forces her to sit atop her dressing table. Combs and powders and bottles roll across the surface and onto the floor, clattering and crashing upon the stones, but they don’t pay any mind to the mess. Sansa parts her legs at Jon’s urging, so he might stand between them. He can feel the heat emanating from her center as he rucks up her skirts, calloused hands mapping smooth thighs, thumbs teasing the edges of her smallclothes.

“Jon —” she protests, unconvincingly when his name on her tongue breaks off into a sigh, when her painted fingernails drag down his chest.

He crushes his mouth to hers and growls darkly, _“Don’t.”_

So she kisses him back, and _doesn’t_.

Jon makes quick work of her smallclothes, the Dornish silk unbinding easily and slipping down her legs to land at his feet. Underneath where they’d been, she’s hot and wet and aching for him — Jon can feel her pulse beat here, too, he thinks as he caresses her mound and eases a finger inside her.

There is a raw, animalistic need to take her — all of her, right now, without preamble; it claws at his insides, this need, but Jon forces it down. She is a maid, tight and unused, coiled like a spring just waiting for release, and Jon will see to it that she wants him before he lets his own need overtake him.

Sansa whines, long and high, when he slips another finger inside her. She rocks against his hand, tentatively at first — but that won’t do, Jon thinks. He wants her writhing and bucking and begging for him.

He leans his forehead against hers, panting in time to his fingers’ thrusts, and confesses so there can be no question of it, “I want to be the first man who touches you, the first man who has you.”

“I would be ruined for a husband.”

“Good.” He curls his fingers, making her gasp and clutch him close. “I don’t intend to entertain any more marriage proposals, do you hear?”

Sansa grips his hair, tries to catch her breath and make him see reason — to make _herself_ see reason as he blinds her to everything but his scent, his breath on her skin, the feel of him inside of her — “The North needs heirs, Jon.”

Jon rears up to bury his face in her neck, taking her under one knee to hitch her leg over his hip, while his busy fingers slip deeper into her. She cries a broken litany of his name, peppered with pleas, and he tells her, “I’ll give you as many as you wish.”

“The North —” Sansa’s chest heaves as her breath comes more sharply, almost painfully when Jon’s movements slow and he removes his hand from her entirely. His fingers glisten with the way that she wants him, and he licks them clean, eyes dark and steady on her. Suddenly she feels empty, bereft, starved. “The North may not accept illegitimate heirs, Jon.”

“Then I’ll marry you.” And he falls to his knees on the stone floor between her feet as if to prove it. Then he tears her skirts in two and adds, “But first I’m taking you to bed.”

Her gown is in tatters, scraps of deep grey wool that dance across the dressing table and flutter onto the floor. Jon’s groan is deep and appreciative when his hands slide up Sansa’s stockinged legs to the hem of her shift, iridescent in the crackling firelight behind them. Her eyes are dark, cheeks stained pink, lips swollen and parted, and Jon wonders if he can rip her to shreds the same way he did her pretty dress.

“I want to be the first man,” he tells her again, and jerks her hips off the table to bring her cunt to his salivating mouth, “and the _only_ man.”

He can’t know what she thinks of his declarations, but she cries out when Jon’s mouth latches onto her cunt, when his tongue delves where his fingers had been.

The cinnamon lingers here, he finds — just a whisper of its tang amidst her heat. He groans into her folds and her cunt clenches. She likes this, Jon thinks; she likes having him on his knees for her, hands digging into her thighs, worshipping her not as a queen or the key to the North — but as a woman he craves and wants to see come apart at his hand, his command, whenever she wants and whenever he pleases.

Sansa’s hands scrabble for purchase upon her dressing table. Jon’s own leave her thighs for her wrists, grasping them and shoving her hands into his hair; his fingers curl around hers, encouraging Sansa to latch onto him and use him as she likes. He laps at her like a ravenous dog at a bowl of milk, and growls into her cunt, _“Pull it.”_

He wants the pain, wants to feel her lose control. When she heeds his demand, hands twisting in his curls and yanking him more securely against her, Jon moans against her clit and feels his cock harden fully. He _aches_ for her. He presses a palm to the front of his breeches to stem his desire, but it’s to little avail when he’s still got his face buried in Sansa’s cunt.

His fingers rejoin his tongue, coaxing Sansa to her peak. He caresses, pumps, curls, fucking her with everything but his cock, making her want him, making her tremble and whimper and sigh his name in broken, ragged breaths.

The dressing table creaks as her hips undulate deliciously against his face, the sound so arousing that Jon almost wants to bend her over the table and take her that way.

But no — he concentrates his tongue upon her clit and reminds himself that he’d come to her chambers tonight for the express purpose of having her in her bed. He will _take her_ , so that no one else can. She is his, and he’ll have her in the place where she sleeps, where she dreams, where she might touch herself to thoughts of him.

Her thighs tighten around his ears, Jon’s free hand clutches her ankle to hold her to him, and he likes to think that Sansa makes herself peak while she imagines it’s Jon doing it, precisely as he is now.

Jon’s mouth works at her more furiously as he pictures it — Sansa, flat on her back atop the furs, frigging herself and breathing his name, a fine sheen of perspiration upon her brow as she cries out in delight, in frustration. He licks and sucks and groans into her, and his gaze lifts to search her face. Her muscles are clenching, spasming, and he wants to see her face when he makes her come.

“That’s right, Sansa,” he mumbles gruffly into her tight, wet heat. His touch is rapid, his tongue persistent. “Come for me. Peak for your bastard half-brother —”

It’s not the truth — Jon is neither a bastard nor her brother, they both know it, but what does it matter now? He’d been raised as both and he wants Sansa regardless; he’d want her, no matter what they were to each other. And he gets such a filthy thrill to know that she feels the same.

She doesn’t say as much, but she comes when he tells her to. Her body arches, shakes, and her wetness coats Jon’s beard as he licks her through her release. He watches her face, steady as ever, and his hard cock twitches when the blood rushes up Sansa’s neck to her cheeks, when her eyes scrunch shut, when her mouth opens and out spills a string of moans, breathy curses, and his name — _always his name…_

Slowly, Jon removes his fingers. He waits until Sansa opens her eyes to lick his lips, drawing the swollen bottom one between his teeth as he stares up at her. Still on his knees, Jon sucks his fingers into his mouth like he had the first time, but now the motion is more deliberate, more purposeful. She watches, transfixed, chest hitching, as Jon sucks the taste of her from his skin.

He gets to his feet, eyes level with hers when he finally relents and pops his fingers from his mouth with a low groan. He cards them through her hair and murmurs, half a kiss away, “Nothing tastes so fine as your cunt, sweet cousin.”

Jon takes her mouth then, to pass along the lingering musk. Her answering sigh is lovely as she is and it makes Jon kiss her harder. He nudges her lips apart with his own, until their mouths are gaping holes swallowing the life from one another. Sansa’s tongue slides against his and he sucks on it the same way he’d sucked on her clit and his fimgers afterwards: hard and ruthlessly and with the single, express goal to get her wet and ready for him. To make her throb and pulsate and never allow him to leave her bed, so that no other might so much as try to take his place.

He’d kill them if they did.

His mouth stays fused to Sansa’s, to draw out her taste and her moans and her _everything_ that Jon wants burrowed into the deepest crevices of his bones. He shoves his hands under her thighs and lifts her from the table; his cock stirs again when, instinctively, she wraps her legs tight around his hips as he carries her to the bed.

So warm, so inviting — the firelight dances with the shadows so that the bed and its surrounding walls seem to be in motion: flaring, rotating, spinning madly.

Jon releases his mouth’s hold on her only when he sets her upon the foot of the bed. She scoots up the mattress as he shrugs out of his jerkin, tugs his undershirt over his head, and follows her — crawling on all fours like a wolf stalking its prey, but Sansa’s eyes are widened not in fear, but anticipation of what he means to do with her next.

The back of her skull cracks against the headboard. She moans in pain, and Jon’s heart lurches when tears prick at the corners of her eyes. To see Sansa hurt strikes within him a primal need to protect, to soothe, and he is quick to console her: a hand cradles her sore head, and his lips are on her neck to distract her from the ache and incite another sort.

“There you are, love,” he whispers. He takes her wrist with his free hand and once again encourages her to twist her fingers in his curls. She whimpers and he caresses her hair, kisses her with more fevered attention. “ _Shhh_ , darling girl… my girl…”

 _Mine._ Jon sucks her pulse point, swirling his tongue around the little _beat beat beat_ of it. _Mine, all mine._

As Sansa’s sobs subside and her breath quickens, as her hands tug at his curls and her hips rotate beneath the press of his, Jon’s tenderness recedes enough to make room for his animalistic need to claim her to return in full force.

“Yes, Sansa —” his whispers are rougher now, coarse as his beard that rubs red marks onto her ivory flesh, as she rolls her hips, as her cunt begs to be taken “— _yes_ , you want this. You want me to fuck you into your bed, want your maiden’s blood on my cock so no one else will get to take you away from me…”

Sansa is murmuring _yes yes yes_ into the kisses she trails along his jaw. Jon yanks the laces of her shift and becomes quickly impatient when they get stuck; he rips the silk in two and she gasps — at the sound, at the sudden cold, at Jon’s hand taking her bare breast and nearly squeezing her heart from her when he does.

“Do you think your Lord Baelish would want you now,” Jon asks, “if he knew how you wanted me? If he knew that I’d had my fingers in your cunt? That I’d had my tongue inside you?”

His breath is harsh in her ear as he undoes his breeches to free his weeping cock, and then his fingers are inside of her again as he continues to thrust into the hot apex of her thighs.

“Would he want to take you to wife if he knew you’d liked it —” his lips drag across her cheek “— that you’d screamed for me?”

“Jon —” Sansa captures his wandering mouth in a searing kiss. _“Mmmmm —”_

“Would he want you with my scent all over you?”

 _“Oooh —”_ Sansa shakes her head vigorously while her body moves fretfully beneath his own. “I don’t want him.”

“No, you don’t,” Jon agrees as a feral growl rips from his throat. _She’s mine._ He braces a hand on the headboard behind her, the muscles in his arms coiled tight as he looks upon her face — that soft lovely face that he wants to make flushed with pleasure again and again — and he ruts against her. “Tell me who you want, Sansa. Say my name so I can have you, so I can take your maidenhead and call you mine.”

Her hands are all over him — in his hair, twisting and tugging; on his neck, tracing the line of his beard, and she sighs when his lips catch her fingertips and suck; down his chest past his beating heart, all for her; around his cock and he _groans_ while she keens and rattles off his name and what she wants from him —

“ _Jon_ , Jon, take me, I want you to have me, I want to be yours —”

 _“Mine,”_ Jon murmurs. His hand takes hers, dragging it up the bed and onto her pillow, where he intertwines their fingers. He kisses her, nips her lip, and his tongue licks into her mouth as his cock eases inside of her hot, ready cunt. “As I am yours, Sansa.”

She sobs again — not from pain this time, Jon thinks, but at his whispered words and his hand in hers; at the slow rise and fall of his hips and his stuttering heartbeat against hers — and he swallows the sound. It settles somewhere within that erratic staccato beat in his rib cage: where his brothers’ blades had pierced, where the Red Woman had placed her hands to restore his life… and now, where Sansa had touched and repaired his bruised and battered soul.

He wants her. Needs her. _Loves her_ , as though there had been nothing before her at all.

There is a series of pangs in Jon’s chest as he waits for Sansa to adjust. She has not yet moved, only moaned and sighed and whimpered, her nails digging into his naked back. She’s so tight around him — warm and wet and strangling his cock in the most delightfully wicked embrace.

 _No one else gets her like this_ , he thinks as he waits, enraptured by her heartbreakingly lovely face when she loses and catches her breath for him. _They don’t know the pink in her cheeks or the blacks of her eyes. They don’t know the rhythm of her heart beneath mine. They don’t know the sweetness of her breath or her sighs, her touch or her cunt, or the way she looks at me as though I’d hung the moon in the sky for her._

Sansa’s hips move — slowly but assuredly, and Jon’s control snaps.

_She belongs to me. This is mine, and she has all of me._

He fucks her fast, relentlessly, taking her maidenhead and turning her wanton in an instant. His hips snap atop hers while her cunt tightens around him like a vise. She cries out and bites down on her lip so hard that it bleeds; Jon licks the pain from her mouth and drinks her moans like they’re the finest Arbor Gold.

“Do you like that?” he wants to know, hand sliding up her calf and tugging her leg around his waist so he can sink deeper inside her slick, pulsing walls. “ _Mmmm_ , fuck, sweetheart, you like being fucked by me? Tell me, Sansa —”

She moans, presses her lips together only for Jon to force them apart with another kiss and growled command: _Tell me how much you love my cock pumping inside of you._

“I love your cock inside of me,” she gasps when he latches onto her nipple, feasting on the sensitive flesh of her breast. He slides a hand under her arse and pinches her, compelling another gasp — sharp and sweet. “ _Oh_ — seven hells, Jon, oh _gods_ —”

He rolls his hips and thrusts upwards _hard_ and repeatedly. He’d wonder if he were hurting her, but Sansa’s face is alight with a rapturous pleasure that’s sure to make him come sooner than he’d like. But it’s no matter; he’s had her this once, and he’ll keep having her so long as she wants him.

“Come here, love,” he says roughly, and he flips their positions. He sits up, the better to guide her, and bites a bruise onto her neck that not even her most modest gown will be able to hide. His hands clutch at her hips as he starts to thrust upwards again, relishing the new angle and the way her hair gleams in the dying firelight. “Ride me.”

And _oh_ , she does — she follows his hands and his hips and the jerking motions of his eager cock. Her hands roam the planes of his chest, slick with sweat from loving her, and her fingernails leave little crescent moons embedded in their wake. Jon hopes that Sansa will leave such permanent scars upon him; he’d give her every inch of his body, his skin, to mark as her own.

He slaps her arse and then squeezes it, kneading her supple sweet flesh, urging her to take him as hard and fast as she likes. Sansa lifts herself higher in his lap, chest pressed to his, and tangles her fingers in his curls so thoroughly that Jon thinks he may never escape — precisely as he’d intended. He does not wish to escape, to leave her, to be without her, for another nightfall or daybreak and all the hours in-between.

“You’ll be my wife,” he mutters, hoarse and dark, into the slope of her shoulder. He licks the salt from her skin and feels her cunt clench and flutter. His hands span her back, arms holding her close so that he might feel every bit of her naked warmth against his. “ _My_ wife, Sansa, you’ll wed me and I’ll bed you for each day that passes.”

He abandons her shoulder for her mouth, seeking her taste — cinnamon and snow and blue winter roses, and now too the smoky musk that always clings to him. He has marked her as his, and now he would tell it to the rest of the world when he drapes his cloak upon her shoulders in the sacred grounds of the godswood.

 _“Yes,”_ Sansa tells him, and holds him to her chest when he lavishes his tongue over her breast again. One hand tightens its hold on her as the other slips between their writhing bodies so he can tease her clit and make her peak. “Yes, _Jon_ , I’m yours, I’ll be your wife —”

Her words make him come — with a series of rapid thrusts, and he rubs her clit until she shouts his name so it mingles with his own cry of hers. The fire in its grate seems to burst, and the room is nothing but flame and stone and the heady scent of sex permeating the air.

The winds rage outside, howling, roaring, but all either of them can hear is the blood pounding in their own ears, and the ragged breathing of their lover half-a-breath away.

Jon collapses atop the furs, taking Sansa with him. He cradles her head the same way he had when she’d bumped it earlier, running his hands through the length of her hair as he had when he’d unbound it earlier still.

Across the chambers, the fire pops and crackles, dancing in shadows across the stone floor. The light does not quite reach the bed, but Jon could be well and truly blind and he’d still see the radiant blue of Sansa’s eyes when she lifts her gaze to his.

She presses her lips to his heartbeat, and her fingers trace his scars. “You love me,” she whispers, as though she hardly dares to believe it.

_As if it could be any other way._

He chucks her under the chin, and his thumb maps the curve of her swollen mouth. “Aye,” he says, and smiles — sated, comforted, content. “I do. And you love me, my lady wife.”

“I do,” she says, and smiles back. She reaches to scrub her fingertips over his beard; Jon catches her hand and kisses her palm with his open mouth to taste her skin.

 _Sweet cinnamon._ He’ll never get enough.

**Author's Note:**

> y’all knew my ass would find a way to make this romantic, idk what you want from me!!!


End file.
